Will opened his eyes, gasping. Nothing. The candle was steady. Not a single flicker.
The Elder Steward was gazing at him. ‘There was a sword on the ship. A weapon that spewed black fire. Justice said you called it to your hand. What happened?’ she said softly.
‘I didn’t want those people to die.’
‘And so you summoned the Corrupted Blade.’
He didn’t want to talk about that. ‘I wasn’t trying to do it. It just seemed to come to me.’
‘The sword had words in the old language carved into its sheath. Do you remember what they said?’
He remembered the faint markings on the sheath, carvings that he’d felt under his hands, but—
‘I couldn’t read the inscription. It was worn away.’ A jet-black sheath with markings worn by time and the touch of a hundred hands.
‘The Blade was not always corrupted,’ said the Elder Steward. ‘It was once the Sword of the Champion.’
‘The Champion?’ said Will.
The Elder Steward’s face was warm in the candlelight, turning the white of her hair and her tunic to soft gold.
‘Called Ekthalion, it was forged by the blacksmith Than Rema as a weapon to kill the Dark King. It’s said that a great Champion of the Light rode out with it to fight him … but could do no more than draw a single drop of the Dark King’s blood. That’s all it took to corrupt the Blade. You’ve seen its black flame. That is the power contained in a single drop of blood from the Dark King.’
She leaned forward as she spoke, and Will almost felt as if the Tree and the stones in the room were listening.
‘But there is another story,’ she said, ‘that one with the heart of a champion will be able to wield Ekthalion, and even cleanse it of its dark flame. If you had been able to read the inscription, you would have seen the words that once shone silver before the blade turned black. The Sword of the Champion bestows the power of the Champion.’
‘I’m no champion,’ said Will. ‘I didn’t cleanse the blade.’
‘And yet it came to you.’
‘And now Simon has it.’
The Elder Steward sat back, and to his surprise she gave a small smile.
‘But you do not need Ekthalion to defeat the dark,’ she said. ‘Even those who think themselves powerless can fight with small acts. Kindness. Compassion.’
‘The Stewards fight with swords,’ said Will.
‘But our swords are not what make us strong,’ said the Elder Steward. ‘The true power of the Stewards is not our weapons. It is not even our physical strength. It is that we remember.’ And something in her eyes seemed ancient. ‘When the past is forgotten, then it can return. Only those who remember have the chance to stave it off. For the dark is never truly gone; it only waits for the world to forget, so that it may rise again.’ She looked at him with a grave expression.
‘I think there is great power in you, Will,’ she said. ‘And when you learn to wield it, you must make your own choices. Will you fight with strength, or compassion? Will you kill, or show mercy?’
Her words stirred something inside him. He could feel it, even though his mind wanted to shy away. He didn’t want to look at it. But he forced himself to, and when he did, it was there. Not power. But something else.
‘A door,’ said Will, because he was overwhelmed by the feeling. ‘There’s a door inside me that I can’t open.’
‘Try,’ said the Elder Steward.
He looked deep inside himself. He was standing in front of a giant door made of stone. He tried to push on it, but it didn’t move. He could feel somehow that it was sealed tight. And there was something on the other side.
What was behind the door? He pushed at it again, but it didn’t budge. He tried to think of the Stewards’ battle and all that depended on his success. Open! he thought, straining to try to move it, shift it, anything. Open!
‘Try,’ said the Elder Steward again, and he threw everything he had at it, every particle of strength—
‘I can’t,’ he said, frustrated to his core. It seemed to taunt him, no matter how he pummelled at it, no matter how he pushed and strained—
‘That is enough for today,’ said the Elder Steward as Will came gasping up out of his reverie. He didn’t know how much time had passed, but when he looked at the candle, it had burned down almost to a stub. ‘I believe you need something to focus your mind. Tomorrow, I will begin to teach you the chants of the Stewards. We use them to still our inner turmoil, and to focus our concentration.’